And the Globe Gleams As Well

There’s a moan past my ear.
The wind does talk to us,
You know, since we sense it,

The way our words are lost
To the wind, since they mean
Not a thing to not us,

And most of them don’t mean
A thing to most of us.
They’re still words. It’s still talk.

It’s all us, all of speech,
Each thing that means a thing,
With one, weird, soul not ours

The words’. And then I think,
As more breeze blows by me
And sighs for lack of terms,

It’s not all us. What’s us,
Most of what’s us, as much
Signs as the sighs of wind,

Our lungs and hands, our mouths,
Our eyes and tongues. Cows’ spit
Streamed from cud-fueled tank guts.

The names of us that speak
Mean what they mean, and not
What we lowed as winds moaned.

Sat in the Ash and Thought

I have burned my best bed
And doused my ears in ice,
And now I lie in this,

I thought, a few years back,
And thought, well, that is that.
That was not that. Oh, no.

Once you’ve made, scorched, and drenched
Your bed, you don’t just get
To lie in it—if not

Dead. Get up. Rise and walk,
Or what you do to move.
You can sit with the ash,

You can think through your sins,
And you can make your peace.
But then? Get up. No end.

Flash in the Pan, Stitch in the Air

It’s a dun land, these days, the tints
Of gold and red and bronze all gone
To shawl the ground in beige and grey,
The bright white ice a week off yet.

It’s a dull grace, these days like lace,
Flash in the pan, stitch in the air,
The sun a squib, the earth just dirt.
I like it this way. It won’t stay,

But when I was a boy it did,
It seemed like a third of the year
Was grey—bare trees, bare ground, dank air.
I used to pray for snow. I prayed

And I prayed. I dreamed of a storm
That did not stop. I don’t why
I thought it would be good to be
Caught and lost. But I did. I did.

I did not get my wish, but once
Or twice, far from that grey child’s land,
I got snowed in so bad I could
Have died, so bad I did get scared.

That cured me. Sort of. I still dream
Of snow that does not, will not stop,
That hides it all so I can sleep.
I still take a weird joy in storms

I know do not bode well for me.
But I’ve changed, a bit. In warm lands,
I’ve come to love these few dun weeks
High in the hills, glass skies, cliff sands.